Disclaimer - All usual disclaimers apply. I own Lastoric and Izzy.
Chapter 14
Izzy froze. Her heart beat nineteen to the dozen, and she stood, staring in fear and dread, looking at Lastoric. He turned to face her. "Something wrong, Izzy?" For a moment, Izzy looked at him, but then realised that she had to pull herself together. She had to stall him, catch him in the act. She had to do something. She continued, following Lastoric, although her heart yelled to her to get out of this! Run and don't look back! Go back to Baker Street and get help!
As she walked, she placed one hand in her pocket, and her fingers brushed against her mobile phone. It came to her in a flash, and she tapped a few buttons - thank heavens she had used this phone so much she knew the buttons off-by-heart. Engaging one of the applications, she carried on. He took her by the arm and they continued along the tow path, Lastoric now in a state of high excitement.
A few minutes later, they reached their destination, and he stopped. Izzy noticed something in one corner. A small, thin thread - a trap? Or something more sinister? Important to Lastoric anyway. He briefly turned away from her, as if viewing this place to make sure that he had set the scene correctly, and she pulled the key out of her pocket, and used it to cut the thread. It was done in the blink of an eye, and as Lastoric turned she put the key in her pocket. Izzy spoke, praying that her voice would sound natural. "So… where is this lead of yours?"
He grinned at her, a strange, evil, unearthly grin that chilled her very soul and left her trembling. "Oh, my dear girl, I think we both know that there is no lead. You know what I am. Who I am. What I have been doing. I suppose the only question you have is - why?"
She nodded. "Asking that had crossed my mind. Do you know, I read the stories of Sherlock Holmes when I was younger. Peter used to tease me so much. In one - one that Holmes has yet to live, he says that some trees grow to a certain height before going bad. I think it is the same for you. You have spent your whole life solving crimes, with little or no reward. So you decide to become infamous. Commit one of the greatest crimes of the nineteenth century. Fool 'the Great Sherlock Holmes', a man you are not fit to even address. And still, outwardly retain utmost respectability. I feel sorry for you."
Lastoric looked a little surprised, but then smiled. "I see you have it all worked out. Well done. But, oh, there is so much more." He reached into his jacket and produced a knife. "Please do not try anything my dear, I would hate for any evil to befall you. Unlike that young lady last night. She may have knifed me, but I, Jack the Ripper, finished her."
Izzy's mind raced. Keep him talking. Something may show up.
"So, what is the plan now? Are you going to make me another of your victims?"
He seemed genuinely surprised. "Good heavens, no. Why would I want to do that? There are only five Ripper victims, you know that. I just need you to lure Mr Holmes from his house to here. I have no wish to harm you. There is no need. You can walk away from this, unharmed, if you so choose. The note I posted was, in essence, a ransom. Something along the lines of, 'Come here, and she will be safe'. We just need to wait."
"Poetic."
"Indeed. I will be the man who not only killed Sherlock Holmes, the so-called greatest detective in the world, but destroyed his reputation as well! And, of course, that of his faithful biographer. Do you think I have modelled myself well on my hero? I even use his name – Moriarty Lastoric."
The coolness and lucidity of his explanation was terrifying. Izzy fought to keep her voice even. "You're wrong. That won't happen. It can't happen. I've read the stories. Holmes doesn't die here."
Lastoric laughed. "Ah, but time can change. You believe a little too easily when you are confronted by things you do not understand. Who told you it couldn't change? I did. But, my dear, time is a flux. Even the smallest of events can change the course of history. Perhaps – and that will be just too ironic…." He gave a whimper of barely suppressed laughter …. "perhaps it is tonight that he moves out of the realms of fiction into reality. As the failed detective. Yes, that would do. That would be fitting."
"Good Lord, you are mad."
"Perhaps."
"He will not come, you know. He will not fall into this trap."
Lastoric laughed. "He will come. Of course he will come. He thinks you are in mortal danger. If I had Watson here, the effect would be the same. He will not allow you to die in his place because of his own pride. Look at what happened at the hospital. He is a good man."
"Better than you."
"And good men are foolish! Weak! Strong people such as I, we always know which 'buttons' to press. Holmes cannot arrest me. There is absolutely no proof against me. What can he do, take me to the Yard and say that he believes I am the Ripper? Me, a man of obviously good class, well educated and bred? A man who, remember, can in effect disappear at will? He would be laughed away. No, my dear, I will kill Holmes and Watson. With your help."
"Never."
"No? Consider your position, my dear. I can go home at any time. But not you. Have you forgotten that I am the only one who can get you home? Do you want to go home, Izzy?"
Izzy stared at Lastoric for a moment. She had to go home! She wanted it so much! She wanted to see Janey and Barnaby, and heck, even Peter again. When Izzy spoke, her voice was quiet and trembling. "I would like that."
Lastoric let out a shout of laughter - cold, hard laughter, and Izzy winced. Suddenly, she heard footsteps. She had, of course, known they would come, but by heavens, she had hoped they would not. The Ripper's voice rang out: "Ah, good evening, gentlemen. It is good to see you again."
Holmes and Watson walked forward into the light. Holmes wore an expression of absolute anger and hatred, whilst Watson's expression was softer. He scanned the path, and found Izzy, standing next to Lastoric. The question on his face was as clear as if he had shouted it. Are you alright? In answer, Izzy nodded imperceptibly. Watson smiled quickly at her, and Izzy felt like her heart would break. This good, honest, true man with his beautiful wife, killed by her hand. And Holmes! He who was also so good, a man who brought people to justice. Both men, her friends, and she had been used to kill them.
"Let her go, Ripper," said Holmes, his voice unshaken and belying the look on his face. It was almost as though he was discussing the winners at the races rather than murder, death, abduction.
"I must warn you, Holmes," said the Ripper, pointing at Holmes with the knife he held, "I have a trap laid for you. At this moment, sharp blades mounted on a spring mechanism are pointed directly at you and your biographer. One wrong word, one wrong step, and you will be ripped to shreds."
"You monster!" yelled Watson.
Lastoric smiled. "Do you know who I am, sir?"
Holmes scowled. "You are the Ripper. I need know no more."
"Ah, but my dear man, there is more. Izzy, my dear. Why do you not introduce us?"
Izzy sighed. "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, this is my… boss. Mr. Lastoric."
For the first time, Holmes' face registered surprise. Watson, meanwhile, looked absolutely dumbstruck. "Why did you do it, Lastoric?" he asked breathlessly.
"Because I could. Why not? Murder is easy, as it were. I, or my alias, Jack the Ripper, has become infamous, and who cares if some worthless prostitutes die in the process? All I have to do is occasionally step into my time machine and come here to keep the trail warm. To keep the interest going. To ensure the true object of my attention is brought to the point where I want him to be. You, Mr Holmes. You. Here, and now."
"But you said you couldn't use the machine – that you would 'pay for it' afterwards!" exclaimed Izzy.
"My dear girl, you are far too trusting of your peers…." Lastoric's voice taunted her. "You have made many mistakes. I told you at the Hospital that you were close to the Ripper. You were. You were standing right next to him. You think you are a good detective, yet when you arrived here you were not at the site of the fifth Ripper victim as recorded by history. But had I not told you that I would place you at the scene of the latest Ripper murder? Did you not see? Did the penny not drop? You have been such a disappointment. You failed at the first step. You're pathetic. Oh, I can see why the Force fired you. But I have enjoyed my game." Izzy turned away, humiliated, beaten.
"The violence of the attacks…" Holmes murmured. He stared at Lastoric, as if looking at him made him fell sick. "The death of Mary Kelly… the body was mutilated. Last night …. Louisa Govan was ripped open …."
"I have some knowledge of anatomy…"
Izzy, smarting at the vicious rebukes, tried to pull herself together and think rationally: So that's why it was so easy for him to be at the hospital. For all I know he could have been working there for ages, going back and forth with his time machine, knowing that we'd come….
"And Isabella?" said Holmes, "Why…?"
"Do you know, Mr Holmes," said Lastoric, getting more excited with each word, "why I brought Izzy here? A pretty young girl? A woman of brains, of some minor intelligence, just enough for my purposes … she betrayed you, you know. Firstly, without knowing it - getting close to you, befriending you… quite irresistible as a friend, is she not? And latterly, directly. Do you know, just now, I offered her a choice. Your life, or seeing her family again. I fear, my dear Holmes, that she chose her family."
Izzy's heart was breaking but Holmes was staring intently at Lastoric. She couldn't catch his eye. Lastoric meanwhile was almost raving.
"You have no proof against me, detective. You and Watson will die tonight. You will fall by the hand of a truly great detective. A better detective. Then Isabella and I can return to our present time, and I will be able to publish the true identity of Jack the Ripper – my 'scholarly research' will reveal the greatest cover-up in history – Sherlock Holmes and his faithful Watson, working in cold blooded murder, together as 'Jack the Ripper'."
"Never!" shouted Izzy.
"Silence!" bellowed Lastoric over her. "You are already facing a life of being in my power. Oh, gentlemen, the awards and acclaim I will win! The story I will weave! All those under cover investigations in the East End. Lestrade blundering around, unknowingly giving both of you your alibis. All of it a smokescreen for your murderous activities. Doctor Watson's literary rubbish, sold to Mr. Conan Doyle, providing cover for what I will say goes on when you're both away from 221B Baker Street. Just think, Mr. Holmes! How does it feel to move from being the most celebrated fictional detective to being the most vilified factual murderer, in the blink of an eye? History changes tonight!"
Lastoric had become so animated he was breathless. He stopped and calmed himself. He was obviously in considerable discomfort from his wound.
"But enough. To business. The time has come. It has become too dangerous for me. I have tired of the game. That blasted woman last night nearly bested me. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson – I am about to end that phase of my life as the Ripper, and you are about die, and take on that mantle, in my place. It is time to say goodbye."